Marry Me (11 page)
Rhyne looked pointedly at his medical bag, one dark eyebrow raised.
“I have tinctures for infection,” he explained, “but your welts are beginning to heal, and the discomfort is because your skin is being pulled taut. Most people have some salve or liniment in their homes, so I don’t carry it with me.”
“There’s a bottle of Mr. Caldwell’s special liniment in Judah’s chest of drawers.” She watched Cole cross the room to the narrow chest. “First one.”
Cole rooted through Judah’s handkerchiefs and socks and finally found it. “Do you know what’s in it?”
Rhyne shook her head. “Cat piss probably. That’s what it smells like.”
Having been forewarned, Cole removed the cork carefully and gently fanned one hand over the bottle. The scent that wafted toward him made his head jerk back and his features contract. He jammed the cork back into place.
“Told you,” Rhyne said. “Judah uses it on his hip when it’s grieving him. He swears by it.”
“Really?” He was skeptical, but he carried the bottle over to Rhyne anyway. “There’s camphor in it, and more than a little alcohol, but I have no idea what Mr. Caldwell uses to create that peculiar odor. Not many compounds can overpower camphor.”
Shaking her head, Rhyne took the bottle from his hand. “It’s better if you just keep it away from your proboscis. I’ll put it on myself, thank you.”
Cole didn’t argue. “I should go help Johnny. He got an early start on me.”
“He told me you were still sleeping when he brought me breakfast.”
“I suppose I was,” he said stiffly.
“There’s no need to take offense, Doctor. None was meant.”
He knew she was right. “Whitley says I’m thin-skinned about all the things I
can’t
do.”
“Sounds about right. Who’s Whitley?”
“My sister. She lives with me.”
“Do you take care of her or she of you?”
Cole didn’t have to think about that. “It’s both.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“It’s not,” he allowed. “Most of the time.”
“Is she bossy?”
“She’s sixteen. She’s devious.”
“I was thinking she was older than you.”
He shook his head. “No. There are thirteen years between us.” Cole moved away from the bed to end the conversation. He suspected that boredom was provoking her questions, and that meant she was ready to engage in mild activity. “Is there something I can get you to read? That’s an extensive collection in the other room.”
“They’re all Judah’s.”
“He collected them, you mean.”
“I mean they’re all his. No one’s allowed to touch them without Judah’s permission, and he’s stingy with it.”
“He’s in jail. I don’t think he’ll know.”
“He’ll know. He always finds out.” Rhyne rolled the bottle of liniment between her palms as she considered the consequences of defying her father.
“Nicholas Nickleby,”
she said finally. Getting a switch across the back of her legs for Dickens was not the worst thing. “I’ve always liked that one.”
Cole nodded and left to get it. By the time he returned, Rhyne had applied the malodorous liniment and was setting the bottle on the washstand. He wrinkled his nose. “I’m going to leave you with Mr. Nickleby and lend Johnny a hand. I was thinking I’d like to get you up and moving around.” He saw by her hopeful expression that she would willingly abandon the book in favor of leaving the bed.
“Later,” he said firmly. “At lunch. I can help you to the table and maybe out to the porch after that.”
“We should do it now,” Rhyne said. But Cole had already turned away and she was talking to his back. He must have known she’d never throw the Dickens at him because he didn’t even try to hurry.
Cole found Johnny sitting on the corral fence. He had a saddle balanced on the rail beside him and saddle soap in one hand and a rag in the other. He was watching Dolly scratch her neck on a fence post. When Cole came up beside him, he pointed to the mare. “Did Joe Redmond suggest that you take Dolly or was that your idea?”
“Joe’s. Will told me that Dolly is familiar with the trails.”
“That’s because she’s about the same age as dirt. If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, she couldn’t pull an old whore off a piss pot.”
There was an expression he hadn’t heard before. “Colorful.”
“You take my meaning, though.”
“I certainly do.” He looked over the other horses. “Which one did you ride out here?”
“The spotted gray. That’s Sassafras. Sassy to those familiar with her temperament. She likes to toss her head and pretend she’s ignoring you.”
“A coquette, then.”
Johnny pulled a face. “Ain’t that one of those fried potato and lamb balls they serve at the Commodore?”
“That’s a croquette. A coquette is a flirt.”
“Huh.” He rolled that around in his mind for a moment, then gave Cole a suspicious, sideways look. “I thought you never ate at the hotel.”
“They have croquettes in New York, Johnny. Banana.
Oyster and macaroni. Salmon. Sweetbread. Chicken and mushroom.”
Johnny’s mouth watered in appreciation. He glanced up at the sun. “Still got some time before lunch, I reckon. Too bad about that. I’ve got a powerful taste for some fritters.”
Cole chuckled. He put one foot on the lower rail and hoisted himself up beside Johnny. “Do the other horses have names?”
“Probably do. I only know Twist–the cinnamon gelding by the trough. That’s Runt’s horse, leastways it’s the one he, I mean she, rides into town when she’s not coming for a season’s worth of supplies. She has to bring the wagon for that. The two mares pull that.”
“I was under the impression she only ever went to Reidsville when she needed supplies.”
Johnny shrugged. “Mostly that’s it, but I’ve known Runt to come in for powders from Caldwell’s or to pick up leather goods at Wickham’s.” He held up the saddle soap. “Or something like this at the emporium.” He folded his palm around the soap again and rested his forearm on his knee. “I suppose I took notice because Mrs. Longabach makes me sweep the walk in front of the restaurant three or four times a day. Right there in the center of town, I don’t miss much.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.”
“In and out like the wind,” Johnny said. “That’s the way Runt moved. I always thought it was because she didn’t want trouble, though Lord knows she never ran from it.”
“And what do you think now?”
“I reckon Runt just didn’t want to be found out.” Johnny shook his head slowly. “Peculiar, ain’t it? Her pretendin’ all the years to be Judah’s son, I mean. Can’t help but wonder how old she was when she found out different. I didn’t ask her; didn’t think it would be polite on account of she’s a girl now, but I did wonder it. I have three sisters and a brother and we got around to comparing parts eventually.” He felt his face go hot. “We didn’t do nuthin’,” he explained quickly. “Just looked. Got a lickin’ for it, too.”
Cole was hard-pressed not to grin. “Children are curious, and they usually get punished for it. Fortunately, it doesn’t make a lasting impression.”
“Maybe your mother wasn’t using the right switch.” Johnny had an urge to rub his posterior even now. “I can tell you, willow leaves an impression.”
“I meant that we don’t stop being curious,” Cole said. He stared across the corral at Twist.
“I guess that’s true. I got me a girl now. Mary Showalter, but folks call her Molly. I get powerful curious about her.”
Cole did smile now and kept his own counsel. There wasn’t much point in explaining that curiosity was the precursor to scientific inquiry or that it had a far broader application than discovering what was under a woman’s skirts.
Still, Cole found himself wondering how old Rhyne was when she learned it for herself. And even more important, what happened next.
Rhyne was the first to see Wyatt Cooper riding along the ridge. She was also the first to remark that he wasn’t traveling alone. “That’s his wife he’s got with him.”
Cole and Johnny exchanged glances as Rhyne pitched the potato she was peeling into the bucket at her feet. She tossed the paring knife in after it. Cool spring water splashed all around.
“I’ll need another spud,” she told them, wiping her hands on her trousers. “Two would be better. Lord, but I hate peeling potatoes.”
Johnny said he’d get them, but Cole didn’t believe for a moment that his offer was prompted by either graciousness or gallantry. He just wanted to escape the sharp edge of Rhyne’s temper. The porch shook slightly as he hurried across it.
As soon as Johnny disappeared into the house, Cole stopped snapping string beans and looked up at Rhyne. She was sitting on the edge of the porch, he on the step below. “Is it really the potatoes making you set your teeth? You volunteered, remember?”
“I wanted to be outside in the fresh air with a knife in my hand.”
Cole plucked one of the potatoes from the bucket and held it in his palm. She’d crafted it like an owlet. “If you wanted to whittle baby barn owls, you might have just said so.”
Rhyne set her mouth stubbornly and retrieved her knife. She picked up the last unpeeled potato, or at least the last one she had at her side, and began to remove the skin.
Cole dropped the spotted owlet back in the water and returned to the string beans. He waited her out, not because he was particularly patient, but because nudging her never yielded answers.
He glanced toward the ridge. Wyatt and Mrs. Cooper hadn’t started their descent. Neither of them appeared to be in a hurry to do so.
“I don’t want to leave,” Rhyne said. “He’s going to make me go. I know it. He’s tried to convince me before. So has she.”
So that was it. It wasn’t about Rachel Cooper at all, or not only about her. Rhyne must already sense the pressure the two of them would bring to bear. At the risk of having the paring knife thrust in his shoulder, Cole reminded her what he thought. “You won’t be safe here. I shouldn’t have to put any other argument in front of you. On your own, you can keep trespassers out, but once Judah returns it will be different. He owns everything. You’ll be the trespasser.”
“He won’t throw me out. He needs me. No one else will work for him.”
“That doesn’t mean you should.”
Rhyne fell silent. She stared at the potato in her left hand, then at the knife in her right. “What else would I do? This is what I know.”
“You’re familiar with this place,” Cole said. “But you know a great deal more than that. You could–”
Johnny stepped out of the house juggling three small potatoes. “Here you go, Runt.” He tossed one toward her, and she snagged it out of the air with the point of her paring knife. Johnny was delighted. He dropped to the space beside her. “Now there’s a skill that don’t get near enough attention.”
Rhyne looked at Cole. “Yes, indeed,” she said quietly. “There’s such a great deal that I know.” She handed the knife and the potatoes to Johnny. “You finish up. I’m going in.”
Rachel Cooper dismounted in front of the cabin. She passed the reins to her husband and he continued on to the corral. Johnny tipped his hat at her and then went to help Wyatt.
“Mrs. Cooper,” Cole said, getting to his feet.
“Rachel, please.” She held out her hand. “I was relieved to learn you stayed behind, Doctor. Doc Diggins saved my husband’s life, so I’ll always be grateful to him, but I know he wouldn’t have stayed with Runt unless Will had run off with all the horses. Doc was never much for walking if he could ride, and never much for riding if he could drive his buggy.”
It was the first time Cole had heard the slightest criticism leveled at the doctor’s head. “I rode out on Becken the first time and learned I preferred walking.” Cole found himself appreciating Rachel Cooper’s soft laughter. She was a tall, lithe woman, poised but not rigid in her carriage. She had graceful gestures, not expansive ones, but her smile was generous enough to spark her dark brown eyes.
“I heard that Joe gave you Becken.”
“Is there anyone that doesn’t know?”
“I don’t think so. It’s that kind of town.”
“Was it a test of some sort, or did I do something to offend Mr. Redmond?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Nothing like that. He told me that he meant to accommodate your skill. Your introductory letter, remember? You described yourself as a bruising rider.”
“Whitley.” It wasn’t the first time his sister’s name had served as a curse.
“How’s that again?”
“Nothing,” he said, turning to give her his elbow. “Shall we go inside?” He escorted her up the uneven steps and across the canted porch. She seemed to glide.
Cole had never seen the sheriff’s wife in anything but sharply tailored dresses that were vaguely masculine in their cut. It was a style that balanced her softer, feminine features, and lent the impression that she’d be at her ease marching off to battle. Today, however, she was wearing clothes that Runt might have envied–if Runt had ever wanted anyone to know she was a woman.
There was no mistaking that’s what Rachel Cooper was. She wore loose, comfortable trousers that still managed to suggest there were a pair of elegant ballerina’s legs beneath them. Her shirt was pale blue chambray but in no manner was it a man’s discard. The soft cotton had been fashioned to fit her narrow frame, and the cuffs ended at her wrists, not well beyond them. She wore a dark brown leather vest and boots that showed scuff marks and a cursory spit polish. Like a man, she removed her hat when she walked in the door and placed it on a hook beside Runt’s battered one. A heavy plait of coffee-colored hair fell down the middle of her back. She took off her leather riding gloves and dropped them on the table.
“Is Runt up there?” she asked, pointing to the loft.
Cole tore his eyes away from her fallen braid and shook his head. “Judah’s room.” God help him, at least he didn’t stutter. He felt the warmth of her gracious and gentle smile and had no doubt then that she was used to reactions like the one he’d just had and that they meant absolutely nothing to her. Cole imagined her husband had had to learn to be tolerant.
“Do you think Runt will mind if I go in?”
Cole laid his hand on Rachel’s forearm, halting her forward progress. “It was you, wasn’t it?”